


Heroes Part 1 0f 2

by hazeltea (madlovescience)



Series: Sentinel/Heroes [2]
Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-20
Updated: 2010-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:59:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madlovescience/pseuds/hazeltea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Takes place after after <i>Sentinel </i></p>
    </blockquote>





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after after _Sentinel _

"But Dad…" Jim had protested. "We're old enough to help! You were fighting at cadet school at thirteen, right? If we hadn't come you'd have been killed." It was a lie, and Jim knew how weak it sounded the second the words left his mouth. Still, he resigned himself to them, knowing feigned concern was his best defense. A mission like this was all in a day's work for Ace Rimmer, which was why they had chosen today to carry out their plan. Bexley, ever dull and sensible, had refused to be part of any plan that involved risking their necks by sneaking along on a particularly dangerous mission, pointing out that they should get enough practice to both impress their father, and be alive for the next one. Jim had agreed to the compromise, if only because he needed Bexley's hacking skills and was on some level afraid that his brother might not keep his secret if he'd have done things his own way.

The thing was, in theory, he could see Bexley's point, but in reality, it was embarrassing to see Ace Rimmer lose his cool because he was worried about some stupid kids on a simple mission, and that's all they had managed to come off as. One minute Rimmer had been nonchalantly taunting the guards from his cell, not seeming particularly concerned about how he was going to escape the lattice of laser energy surrounding him. When the guard baited him with news that they were trailing two humans, Jim had half expected Rimmer to laugh, to spit in the guard's face and declare with that thick bravado that he and his lackeys were no match for his boys.

Jim was not prepared for his reaction.

Rimmer's eyes had gone wild beneath his mask of stony defiance, and he had growled something that Jim could barely hear. As the guard left, laughing, Rimmer lunged at the barrier with his shoulder, crying out as the lasers singed his hard light flesh, and Jim winced, knowing that lasers of that category could split a light bee in two. For the first time since they'd stepped out, Jim felt fear, as he watched the man he idolized become, for just a moment, a crazed, caged creature. He felt a surge of relief as Bexley disabled the energy field, and then hadn't had time to feel much of anything as Rimmer had grabbed them by the shoulders and hauled them off in retreat, dripping hologramatic blood that dissipated as it trickled to the ground, and left faint blue traces in his footprints that faded seconds later once they had finally boarded the Wildfire nearly an hour later.

"You are still a child!" Rimmer had barked, in a high pitched, condescending tone. "And you smegging well proved it with your little stunt today, miladdio." His voice was uneven, saturated with disapproval, and his jaw was set in an odd sort of way that made him look less handsome and heroic, as though he was an imposter in Ace's clothes. "Both of you." He glared at Bexley, and Bexley averted his eyes, shuffling his feet and partially hiding behind Jim. "Have disobeyed me, and done something incredibly dangerous and immature and…" Rimmer took a deep, shaking breath, clamoring for words that could express the whirlwind of emotions assaulting him.

This was all wrong, Jim knew. Things weren't supposed to turn out this way. Heroes weren't born this way. In his daydream, his father would beam at them proudly, perhaps even declare that he'd finally become a man.

"But we were only…" Jim protested.

"Go to your room." Rimmer said, barely above a whisper. Hard light flesh still bled freely from beneath the shredded sliver jacket, and a hand clutched unconsciously at his chest.

"Dad…" Jim reached out to him, horrified by the sight of the unbandaged wound, and wanting to help.

"NOW." Rimmer snarled. "Now, James. Bexley, you too." He added, although his distain seemed to linger on Jim.

"Yes, Sir." Bexley muttered, retreating to the rear of the ship and yanking Jim after him.

The Wildfire was a tiny ship, meant for one man to pilot on short missions, not built for a family consisting of a grown man and two rapidly growing teenage boys to use as a home. Early on, Rimmer had converted most of the main cargo area into quarters for the twins, installing bunks and locking bins, until the ship resembled a sort of streamlined gypsy caravan. This meant that they had to land quite often for supplies, but he figured it was in their best interest to expose them to the safer areas of various dimensions as often as possible. He'd taken every opportunity to turn these outings into educational excursions, and evidence of his overcompensation littered the tiny room, from stacks of books to hobby items. A watercolor set intended for Bexley had been assimilated into Jim's storage chest, while Bexley had permanently borrowed the set of tools that Jim could barely remember getting a chance to use. A disc of Morris dancing that neither of them had any interest in was serving its new purpose as a coaster.

Jim jabbed the door panel with the back of his fist, wishing the automatic door would shut faster. He swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked back angry tears that were, to his dismay, forming in the corners of his eyes. Bexley sat on the edge of his bunk, eyeing his brother quietly. He slid back the metal panel between their beds and pulled loose a set of wires, having recently figured out how to disable the Wildfire's audio reception in their room. Now that they had privacy, he'd let Jim sulk, and he'd talk when he wanted to. By experience, it shouldn't be too long.

Jim sprawled out on his bunk and stared at the low ceiling. He'd dreamed of this day for years, even before his father had taken him up on his knee and taught him how to pilot the Wildfire, and, after weeks of begging, how to fire the plasma rifles. Someday, he'd always thought, he was going to fight alongside him and be a hero. Tall, daring, resourceful, and adored by the people whose lives they breezed through- to Jim, there was no finer man in all of the dimensions that existed. He would watch in awe as Rimmer would glide the Wildfire through space, giggling slightly as the Dimension Jumps made his stomach bounce inside his body. He would reluctantly obey when they were told to never leave the Wildfire, if only because he knew that upon his father's return, they would get to hear his stories, and have extra attention lavished upon them.

He felt the mattress shift as Bexley sat beside him. "You okay?" he asked, quietly.

Jim sat up, rubbing his eyes angrily. "Why wouldn't I be?" he demanded.

"I'm not really okay." Bexley offered. Jim frowned, imagining what Bexley must have felt as they were scolded. He imagined Rimmer silently admonishing him with his eyes, Bexley, I expected more of YOU.

"Smeg off and write one of your awful poems about it, then." Jim retorted, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"Fine. Forget I asked. Twonk." Bexley retreated to his own bunk, glaring at him over a battered copy of Astronavigation and Invisible Numbers Made Simple.

The silence was deafening, and after a few minutes Jim couldn't begin to separate the low hum of the Wildfire's engines from the sound of his own heartbeat. Jim remembered with some regret that picking a fight with his best friend wasn't the greatest idea in such tight quarters at the best of times, let alone when he really did want some attention. "Bex?"

"What." His voice was flat as he turned a page, pretending to concentrate on the fine print.

"I'm sorry about today." Jim sighed.

After a long moment, Bexley set down the book, and stretched. "Me, too." He said, softly. It always baffled Jim how easily Bexley forgave, but he took advantage of it quite often.

"Do you think he'll be angry for long?" Jim worried at the edge of his blanket.

Bexley shrugged. "He never stayed upset with Mum for long, did he?"

Jim picked at the stitching. "Mum's dead." He replied. "So how would I know?"

"Not our Mum." Bexley turned onto his side. "His... I mean, his version. Of Mum."

"So?"

"Just saying, all those stories he told us, and they always made up. It's not like he's disowned us or anything." Bexley seemed content with his rationalization. Jim nodded and half smiled. Bexley had a logical point, as usual; so why did he still feel so torn up inside?


	2. Part 2

By his second cup of tea, Rimmer's hands had stopped shaking, by his third, the lattice of burns on his shoulder had begun to fade in intensity, causing a numb, vaguely itchy sensation that reminded him that he was not quite alive. He stood, peeling away his ruined flight suit, and watched the transformation. It didn't knit itself together like human flesh would, but faded in intensity under a faint blue haze, so slowly that it was barely noticeable. Vaguely, he wondered if there would be a scar. Several times, he had been wounded and left with a scar, only to have it disappear once his mind had become occupied with other things, briefly reappearing upon close examination, as though it were a hologramatic glitch of sorts. His physical form upon death seemed to be set in stone, no matter how hard he tried to forget his uncooperative hair or his ridiculous ears, for example, but postmortem changes were constantly in flux with his mind and memory. He summoned a military gray jumpsuit from memory, similar to those he'd worn on Red Dwarf, and sat with a sigh.

Ace had never abandoned a mission before. Rimmer knew that he should feel some form of defeat or shame at this thought, but his mind was focused on Jim and Bexley, and how close he had come to losing them. His tea had long since gone cold, and he pushed it away. He tried to dismiss the day's events as an unlikely, unfortunate act of imitation any children were bound to try once or twice, but acidic worry gnawed at his gut. This was only the beginning, it said. They are getting older, it insisted. Things are only going to get worse. His right leg fidgeted of its own accord, and he regarded the dark rings left on the inside of the neglected teacup. Maybe a fourth cup was in order. The warmth would be a comfort.

Rimmer ran his thumb gently over the photograph of Lister that he kept beside him in the cockpit. Lister was young here, barely a boy, he mused. He guessed that the picture dated from his early days on the Dwarf. How had he changed in the years since they'd parted? It didn't bear thinking about. It was bad enough that his train of thought took a turn for the worst case scenario when he imagined his Lister in his current state. If he imagined Lister eking out a miserable existence alone, or if he was long since dead, the thoughts broke his heart; yet imagining Lister living happily without him, somehow finding a woman and rebuilding the human race on a farm with sheep and horses set his blood boiling in seething jealousy.

Now, it was difficult to gaze at the young Lister's image because he could see so much of the boys in him; in a few short years they would be his very image. What had happened that had made the past fourteen years pass so swiftly? How could he keep the twins close to him, and safe? A terrifying, unfamiliar feeling, one of aching, fear, and loss of control had come with the realization that he had somehow allowed himself to love someone more than his own existence; something that was against every Rimmer Directive for survival. Yet how could he not, when the twins were so eager to embrace him, when their little lives depended on him, and they returned any show of affection tenfold? He'd been lost within weeks. They were the only ones that had never looked down on him, never been cruel or snide. They admired him. They were, he suspected, far more than he, even disguised as Ace, deserved.

Would Lister approve of the job he'd done, he wondered for perhaps the millionth time. Would Lister have thanked him for raising his sons, these wonderful, brilliant children who looked so like him, yet spoke without a trace of scouse? Would he have understood his reasons for telling the boys about him (neglecting the bits that were of particular shame to himself), or would he have laughed, or, worse yet, be appalled and disgusted that Rimmer fancied himself their father and spoke of him with such tenderness, knowing that, coward that he was, Lister would never know? Would Lister he have found fault in their upbringing, raining down criticism on him as cruelly as he did to himself?

Rimmer ached for reassurance, and his instinct was to find another Lister at once, one that he could seduce and hold close, whispering things that he'd never say to his own Lister, before leaving the other in his doppelganger's enraged, reluctant hands. It was selfish, he knew, but he rationalized that he was doing himself a favor by breaking the ice, so to speak. It would have eased his nerves, if only he could bring himself to leave the Wildfire. As it stood now, he began to fear that he'd never be able to leave the boys out of his sight again.

Still, he was Ace, wasn't he? He could handle the boys. He could do anything. Just as long as he remembered that he was Ace now, and not Arnold.


End file.
